Die Tote Stadt
by WynterSky
Summary: When Germany is implicated in the ill-fated plot to assassinate Hitler in July 1944, Italy is the only one willing to go to his aid...but he's locked up in England. Can he escape his captors and find help in time to save Germany?
1. Chapter 1

[A/N: As anyone who's been following me for a while knows, I don't generally venture out of Naruto fanfic. However, I am a massive history buff, especially where WWII is concerned. Therefore, when I found Hetalia I watched all of it in about five days. Some of that Hetalia overload burst out and turned into this. I hope I don't do the characters any injustice.]

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Die tote Stadt

I.

_~Late July, 1944, somewhere in England~_

"Good morning to you, Italies!" England announced all-too-cheerfully as he entered the prison's secret level, stopping in front of the cell holding the despondent Italy and his much more indignant older brother. They had been held in England ever since their surrender to the Allies in September of 1943, and to avoid their true identities from being revealed in a POW camp England himself had been put in charge of them.

Unfortunately, that also meant he was in charge of feeding them, and in their months of captivity the brothers had come to dread his arrival more and more. Or at least, Romano did, being much more fatalistic than his brother who still seemed to believe that England would wake up one day and magically know how to put together a decent meal.

"And what sort of slop have you brought us today?" Romano demanded.

England huffed indignantly. "It's perfectly good turnip soup," he replied.

"No pasta?" Italy interjected woefully.

"No pasta," England answered with a tired sigh. "I told you, it's _rationed_." He sounded somewhat apologetic; the Italies were not regarded by the Allies with as much distate as the rest of the Axis nations, and many considered them to be a merely a couple of unfortunates Germany had dragged into his war. The fact that Italy had been invaded by the Wehrmacht shortly after surrendering to the Allies served to support this way of thinking.

"Ve, I want pasta!" Italy wailed, and burst into tears.

So far, that morning had gone according to routine. "Hush up, crying won't help," Romano said, expecting that, as according to routine, Italy would soon tire of crying and give in to the inevitable turnip soup.

This was when the routine broke, as Italy would not be consoled. His words were almost incomprehensible, but Romano could hear him say 'Germany' a few times.

"Oh, forget him!" Romano snapped. This Did Not Help, and in fact only made Italy cry harder. "Can't you do something?" he asked England. He would never have asked the other nation for help under ordinary circumstances, but being stuck with his loudly crying brother in a small space was not a pleasant prospect.

"Well…" England paced in front of their cell door for a few seconds. "I really _haven't_ any pasta, but…oh, now I have it! Listen, Italy, if you stop that I'll find you a German newspaper so you can see what your, uh, friend is up to lately. I'm sure SIS have a few squirreled away somewhere."

Italy slowly stopped crying and Romano and England both sighed in relief before sheepishly breaking off eye contact and pretending they hadn't been working towards the same goal for the last two minutes.

"Here, you might as well have the soup now," England said, pushing the tray he had been carrying through the food slot in the door before making a hasty exit.

Luckily for both Italies but mostly for Romano, England did indeed return in short order with a barely week-old edition of the _Volkischer Beobachter. _Italy fairly snatched it from England's grip when it was slipped through the bars, then curled up on his cot to read it.

"So, is he still losing the war?" Romano asked after Italy had been reading for a few minutes.

"That's not what this says…" Italy replied doubtfully. Obviously what he had been reading conflicted somewhat with the occasional reports England had given them of Allied progress since the landings on Normandy. England would have much rather been on the front lines with his troops like America, France and Canada, instead of being stuck playing guard.

"It's a propaganda sheet, of course that's what it would say," Romano pointed out, but Italy was no longer listening to him. Looking over at where his brother was sitting, he saw that he had suddenly turned white and the edges of the newspaper were crumpling in his grip.

"What's wrong?" Romano asked.

Italy dropped the newspaper with a shudder, and Romano stepped over to grab it before the pages could scatter all over the floor. Sitting down against the wall, he looked at the page he thought Italy had been reading before he freaked out.

**_Treasonous Plot to Assassinate the Fuhrer Stopped,_ **the headline blared in heavy black lettering. Further down, after several paragraphs spouting joyful nonsense about Hitler's survival, was a list of 'Traitors Against the State' who had been arrested in the aftermath of the coup.

Romano soon realized what had caused Italy's panic. Only a little ways into the list, above Robert Bernardis, was a much more familiar name.

Ludwig Beilschmidt.

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[A/N: The July 20th Plot was never mentioned in Hetalia, so I wanted to cover it. Also, as far as I could tell pasta and bread products weren't actually rationed, but what's a little inaccuracy where Hetalia is concerned?]


	2. Chapter 2

[A/N: Should I include a warning for heavy-duty Nazism? I figured it came with the subject matter, but still…]

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II.

"What's with him?" England whispered that afternoon when he returned with supper for the Italies and noticed Italy's lack of reaction to his arrival.

Romano showed him the paper.

"What the—is that even _allowed_?"

Italy ignored their whispered discussion; he was far too busy at the moment to pay attention to anything. He was doing something he hadn't done since the First World War. Italy was thinking.

Germany's rebellion was not against the laws of their existence—while the national avatars usually abided by the rulings of their nation's leaders, their emotions were swayed by the feelings of the people. When the leaders and the people came into conflict, anything could happen.

The trouble was that Germany had been caught at it, and Germany's boss didn't like rebels.

Italy considered asking the Allies for help, but even if they wanted to there wasn't much they could do. England was here with Italy and his brother, America, Canada, and France weren't going to make it to German soil for weeks or months, and China was far too busy dealing with Japan to bother with anything going on in Europe. Besides, none of them would be of any inclination to help out Germany, considering what he had been responsible for in the last several years.

That meant that there was only one person who could help Germany in his current situation. One small, timid person, who just really wanted some pasta and out of this whole mess. He was also in jail, which didn't make things any easier.

Still, someone had to do something, and Italy had always wanted to be able to help Germany.

He just had to think of a way to do it, but planning had never been his strong suit.

…

"What were you thinking, you idiot?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Germany stared coldly at his brother as Prussia entered the cell. He would have done more, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. "No wonder you let me run around rescuing Italy all over half the continent, you didn't want me to know what you were turning a blind eye to back home!"

Prussia smirked, but it didn't match the way his red eyes glowed in the prison gloom. Germany almost imagined he could see them reflected in the walls of his cramped cell. "What, am I not allowed to try and help my baby brother?"

"You call destroying my people _help?"_ Germany calculated once again whether reaching the door while Prussia was distracted was a possibility before again discarding the idea. In his current political situation he was badly weakened, and even if he got past Prussia there would be myriad guards and checkpoints before he could make it out of the prison. He had yet to think of a scenario where he could get rid of the handcuffs, as well.

Prussia sighed before adopting a tone that one would use when speaking to a slow-witted child. "Look, Germany—_Ludwig_, my brother—the nation has been sick ever since the Great War, you know that. And when someone is sick, you have to get rid of the infection somehow."

"That 'infection' was my citizens—" Germany began to protest, then cut off with a gasp as Prussia punched him in the midriff.

"You _idiot._" Prussia punctuated the word with a punch. "I was going to make things _nice_ for you." Another punch. "But you couldn't just _let_ me, of course not, you had to go and join a lot of _traitors_ and _ruin_ everything!"

Germany was getting tired of being his brother's punching bag now, but considering how much better he had it than the other conspirators he didn't think he ought to complain. He knew he wasn't being held in the same place as the others who had been arrested after the plot failed, but he could feel what had happened to them, a little.

They had come so close! He couldn't understand why it hadn't worked, to be honest. Von Stauffenberg had been given the support of Germany itself, that should have been enough to ensure its success. But perhaps enough of the German people were still under Hitler's sway that Germany getting involved could have made things worse.

"So what happens now?" Germany asked as Prussia took a step back.

"We're still working on that," Prussia replied. "I have to keep an eye on you until our boss decides." Turning sharply, he left the cell (it only took a few steps) and swung the door shut behind him with a clang. "Believe me, I don't like this. It's your own fault though; if you hadn't gotten mixed up in that scheme you wouldn't be here now."

_I suppose it is my fault, in a way,_ Germany concluded once Prussia had gone. _If I hadn't been swept up with stupid enthusiasm and appointed a maniac ten years ago this whole situation would never have begun._

The German nation was sick, very sick: but Prussia was wrong about the cause.


	3. Chapter 3

[A/N: Sorry about Prussia :( I actually do like him quite a lot, but somebody had to be the baddie. Besides, maybe he's not as far gone as all that...]

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III.

"D'you think he's sick?" England asked Romano the next morning when he came with their breakfast. Italy was still curled up silently on his cot; he had barely stirred since the day before.

"Who knows…" Romano sighed. "Here, I'll check. Hey!" he called across the room. "Hey Italy! Pasta!"

"Ve…what?" Italy said, raising his head a little. "Did you say something, Romano?"

"That does look bad," England observed, holding the tray with one hand as he reached for the keys in his pocket. "Maybe I should bring a doctor."

Italy didn't move when England opened the door.

"Italy? Come on, say something," England said worriedly, stepping closer. "Have you got a fever?"

When England reached out to feel the stricken nation's forehead, Italy ducked under the outstretched hand and bolted for the open door. England made a snatch for him, but he had reacted too slowly and grabbed at empty air before overbalancing and falling to the cell floor with a clatter of dishes and a splash of turnip soup.

"Get back here, Italy! What are you trying to do?"

Italy could hear Romano shouting at him as he ran, but he ignored his brother's voice. Romano had never liked Germany, he wouldn't understand why Italy had to do this. Besides, if Italy listened to his brother now, he might realize how stupid he was being and give up. He rarely needed much encouragement to do so.

It wasn't very hard for him to find his way out of the prison; England was not the best jailer and as months had passed with neither of the Italies making any effort to escape he had gotten sloppy. In proof of this, he had left the door to the outside open before visiting them that morning.

"Come back here, you idiot!"

England's yell only made Italy run faster as he sprinted out the prison door and into the sunlight. After months in the underground prison, the brightness staggered him and he stumbled to a stop, leaning against the wall. When he heard the footsteps catching up he dashed off again. England came within a foot of grabbing him by the collar, but Running Away was one of Italy's best talents, honed with long practice, and he wasn't about to let himself be caught now.

"Stop it, Italy!" Romano called as Italy ran towards the road and the fields that lay on the other side of it. He had followed England and Italy out of the prison, but not with any intention of escape. "You're going to get hurt—"

As he spoke, the guards on the roof began firing at the fleeing Italy. Fortunately Italy was running very fast and they were terrible shots, but at least one of the bullets hit its mark for Romano saw Italy stagger before he made it to the fields.

"Stop shooting!" England ordered. The last thing he wanted was for a captured nation to be injured: that had to be all kinds of a violation of the Geneva Convention. "What's got into him?" he demanded of Romano.

"It's that Germany," Romano growled. "You have to stop him, I'm not letting my little brother get hurt for that fool!"

"All right," England said. He had stopped running after Italy when the guards started shooting, and by this point Italy had slipped through a hedgerow and was lost to sight in the fields. "Come on, we'll get a car and some dogs or something and go look for him. He'll probably get hungry and give up by lunchtime. Where's he going to go from here, anyway?"

Italy bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain as he huddled into the hedges concealing him. He could hear England and Romano calling him from the road, and almost gave in to the urge to answer them and give up this hopeless idea. His arm hurt terribly where the bullet had hit, and he had skipped breakfast, and the ground he was sitting on was very wet.

But Germany was waiting.

Well, in point of fact Germany didn't know he was coming and therefore wasn't waiting. But if he had known, he would definitely be waiting. Actually, considering his track record Italy probably wasn't much to wait for. But still. He was going to try.

The whole thing was appropriately like something out of a Wagner opera, if it weren't for the incompetent white knight. Italy wasn't much for Wagner, but he hadn't been able to associate with Germany for long without being required to sit through the Ring Cycle a few times. He'd come to appreciate it well enough eventually, although he still preferred a good performance of _Gianni Schicchi _to the heavy Wagnerian stagings.

He tried to distract himself from the pain in his arm by humming a few strains of Verdi as he fumbled to tie a handkerchief around his arm for a bandage. It was difficult with only one free hand and his teeth, but he managed it eventually.

"Ve…" he sighed. "I guess I have to keep going now."

By that time, England and Romano (they were indeed working together to retrieve Italy, although for somewhat conflicting reasons) had decided Italy might have gone into the nearby village and driven in that direction.

They tried the police station first, in case he had already been caught by someone, then a few cafes and a pub that was popular with airmen from the nearby RAF base.

"You know him better than I do, where should we go next?" England asked as they took a break from their search for some tea. In the effort of finding the missing Italy, England and Romano had entirely forgotten, or were ignoring, the fact that they were supposed to be jailer and prisoner. England had even lent Romano a spare jacket of his to cover up his foreign uniform; it would slow things down considerably if England's own people stopped them.

Romano shrugged—considering how unlike himself Italy had been acting ever since the day before, knowledge of his habits might not be enough to find him. "Cats," he said finally. "Look for stray cats, he's always running off to play with them."

"Not a bad idea," England remarked. "There are a lot of cats around the church, we can try there. Just give me a moment to finish my tea."

Romano paced up and down as England calmly sipped at his steaming cup. "Hurry up, can't you?" he grumbled.

"One cannot hurry tea," England retorted.

Romano had just thought of a perfectly cutting reply when the door was flung open, ruining his chance to say it. "Major Kirkland, sir!" a soldier exclaimed, running over to England's table. "Thank goodness we found you."

"What's wrong?" England asked after swallowing his last mouthful of tea. While none of the personnel of the prison or the RAF base knew his true nature, they had been instructed that he was an extremely important individual who should be reported to in any emergencies. Hopefully it was nothing too serious, because the last thing he needed right now was another situation interrupting the search for Italy.

"There's been a break-in at the base, sir," the soldier explained breathlessly. "An escaped POW's stolen one of the planes!"


	4. Chapter 4

[A/N: I didn't mean to be so long between updates, but I had to get ready for the first day of school.]

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IV.

"He did _what_?"

"How on _earth_ did he manage it?"

Romano and England's shouts were almost simultaneous.

"Eng—uh, Kirkland, we have to stop him!" Romano whispered as the soldier stared at them curiously. "He doesn't know how to fly!"

"Hang on, we don't know it's him yet," England replied before turning back to the soldier. "What did he look like?"

"Well, he had an Italian uniform on, but—"

"It's him," England said, ignoring the rest of the soldier's report and dashing out of the pub with Romano behind him. Vaulting into the open-top car he had left directly outside, he shoved his foot down on the gas pedal as soon as Romano was safely in his seat.

They drove towards the RAF base at a speed that could do no good for the car's fuel consumption, but now was hardly the time to think of wartime shortages. And besides: this trip Really Was Necessary.

"He's gone completely insane…" Romano said in horror as they neared the base, which was by now swarming with activity. "It's hopeless, what can he possibly be thinking?"

"I'll soon find out," England declared as he braked the car in front of the operations office of the RAF base. As he ran in, he was bombarded with voices from every side.

"Was it a mass escape?"

"Is London in danger?"

"We're scrambling our pilots after him, Major Kirkland!"

"No, don't!" England declared authoritatively, jumping up onto a chair to better take charge of the crowd. "Keep all other planes down and get me the radio signature of the stolen plane and some charts."

"But—" one of the RAF officers protested.

"Do it!" England snapped. "The next person to contradict me will be put on report, is that understood?" The entire gathering, Romano excepted, was staring at him in confusion, and England quickly realized how strange his orders were sounding. Letting an enemy combatant escape with a piece of important technology would not be seen as a loyal action by anyone present. "Look, this prisoner is a…a special case," he tried to explain.

"No kidding, after this stunt," Romano mumbled. England kicked him in the arm and he stopped talking. He could guess what England was thinking; with one Italian on the loose, another one turning up would not be received well.

"I'm going to try and talk to him," England continued. "Now bring me the radio and the charts, and then clear everyone out of here. This matter is to be treated with the utmost confidentiality, do you understand?"

There were salutes and murmurs of assent from the gathered soldiers, airmen and ground crew. Five minutes later, England and Romano were standing in an empty room with a table full of charts and a radio tuned to the frequency of the Italy's pilfered Spitfire.

"Now, let's just hope the radio was on and he can figure out how it works," England muttered as he flipped the radio on. "It's only been twenty minutes, he can't be too far away…"

"Ve…" Italy's nervous sigh could be heard as the radio crackled to life.

"Oh good, he can hear us," Romano said as he snatched the microphone from England's grip before the other nation could say anything. "Italy! Italy, listen to me—"

"Hush!" England snapped quickly as the door to the operations room opened. "What is it?" he demanded of the young radio operator who entered. "I ordered that we not be disturbed!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I was told to bring you these coordinates. They're the latest location of the stolen plane," the girl explained, handing a piece of paper to the glaring England before fleeing the room.

"Well, that's helpful, I suppose," England said, picking up a pencil and marking Italy's location on the chart. "Romano, we should use our aliases for now in case we're disturbed again. Now give that back," he added, taking the microphone away.

"What's going on?" Italy asked. From the sound of his voice, he was a long way away from realizing the gravity of his situation.

"Feliciano, can you hear me?" England said.

"Sure."

"Feliciano…" England sighed briefly before continuing. "Do you actually know how to fly that plane?"

"Well…Japan—um, Kiku? Are we calling him Kiku today?—anyway, he let me fly one of his model airplanes once! I'm sure it can't be that much harder," Italy said perkily.

"Just out of curiosity, Feliciano, what happened to the model airplane you flew?"

"It—it crashed. Oh…"

Romano moaned. "He's over the sea! If—if he goes down in the sea we'll never be able to get to him, he'll be trapped at the bottom of the North Sea for cent—"

"_Shut up that's not helping!_" England roared.

"Ve?" Italy squeaked in fright. Romano fell silent and began pacing back and forth in front of the table full of charts, pausing occasionally to glare at England, who he currently considered responsible for this situation.

"Just calm down, okay? You're fine, everything's going to be fine." This was probably a lie, but England hoped to stop Italy from panicking and losing whatever control he had over the Spitfire. "Listen, you've got enough time to turn around, but not for very long." The plane hadn't been fully gassed up when Italy swiped it, which made the point of no return closer than it would have ordinarily been. "You need to come back."

"No," Italy said. He didn't say it very firmly, but he said it. "I have to go to Germany."


	5. Chapter 5

[A/N: Oh look! Look what updated!]

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V.

England switched the radio off and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "_One_ time he manages to do something. _One_ time! Here, you can try talking to him for a bit, Lovino, maybe you can get through to him."

"Maybe." Romano did not sound especially hopeful. "When an idea _does_ get into that head of his, there's plenty of room for it to stick." Flipping the switch of the radio back on, he prepared to talk to his brother.

After a few minutes, it became absolutely clear that, despite the fact that Italy was obviously frightened by his own decision, there was nothing England or Romano could do to convince him to turn back and he was getting farther away by the minute.

_Since I'm the one who let him escape, I should at least try and make sure he doesn't get too badly hurt in the process,_ England decided as he took the microphone again. Shifting the maps, he noted Italy's approximate current location. "Italy, can you still hear me?"

"Yes…" With England and Romano's continued attempts to make him give in, Italy had become more and more reluctant to respond to them.

"Look, you win, all right?" England conceded. "But you can't get to Germany in that plane—it hasn't got enough petrol to make it, and as soon as you fly over occupied territory in a RAF plane every Archie emplacement on the continent will use you for a target."

"I said I wouldn't come back," Italy protested.

"I'm not trying to make you. Try Sweden, they're neutral so you won't be shot down and if you're lucky you might be able to get a boat or a train to Germany."

There was brief silence on the other end of the radio, and England hoped it was just because Italy was pondering his advice and not because he was in the process of crashing into the sea. "Ve…okay," Italy said finally. "Which way is Sweden? It's all cloudy up here."

"On your left, after about fifteen minutes," England said, then set the microphone down with a sigh of relief. He had done all he could, and now it would be up to Italy to correctly follow his instructions. As to whether or not he would, England decided that was too far beyond him to be worth thinking about.

…

While England kept the radio on, there was only brief contact from Italy for the next ten minutes as he guided the stolen Spitfire across the North Sea to Sweden. England took this respite to send for some sandwiches from the mess hall on the base—now that he had the time to think about it, he realized that he hadn't had a thing to eat all morning, and neither had Italy or Romano. He had brought the two Italies breakfast before taking his own, and theirs had been ruined during Italy's escape.

Romano was distracted from worrying about Italy long enough to pounce on the tray of sandwiches as soon as it was brought in, and England was only able to salvage two for himself. England would have been more upset about it…but he had a brother, as well. While they had been estranged for some time, if something bad happened to America, England had a feeling he wouldn't have much time for common courtesies either.

After a few minutes of silent sandwich-eating, there was a crackle from the radio, and England and Romano both dove for it. There was a brief struggle, at the end of which England was perched on the table, radio in hand. Romano took this opportunity to steal the sandwich England hadn't eaten yet.

"Is anybody there?" Italy said, his voice fuzzy with static. As his distance from the airfield had increased, the radio connection had worsened.

"Yes, we're here," England replied. "Where are you?"

"I think I must be almost there," Italy answered cheerfully. "I can see land below."

"That's great," England said. _I should have tried to contact Sweden and let him know what was going on, _he thought._ Hopefully he'll be able to handle things once Italy turns up—he's neutral, so he might have to have Italy interned for the duration. That's probably the safest thing for him at this point, anyway._

All England's thoughts of safety fled him as he heard a sudden crash through the radio. "What was that?" he demanded. Next to the table, Romano had dropped his sandwich and turned towards the radio with alarm. "Italy, say something!"

"Ve…I'm still here. I thought you said they wouldn't shoot at me!"

There was another percussive crash, and even through the poor connection England could hear Italy's plane rattle as the blast rocked it. _That was too close,_ he thought, remembering his time in the skies during the Battle of Britain. "Where are they shooting from?"

"F-from the _land_," Italy whined. "Where else?"

England ran a hand through his thick bangs in frustration, setting the microphone down to snatch up one of the maps as he tried to figure out what had gone wrong. "Oh no," he murmured as the conclusion came all too quickly, and he picked up the microphone to see if he could salvage the situation at this point. "I said _left_, didn't I."

"Did you mean," Italy sniffed, his voice shaking, "the _other_ left?"

"I'm afraid so," England said. "Now," he continued briskly, "get back out to sea as quickly as you can so you'll be out of range of their guns. You were probably on the coast of Denmark, which means you should still have enough petrol to get to Sweden as long as you don't get lost again."

"I-I don't think that will work," Italy said, suddenly very quiet.

"Nonsense, just calm down and head North."

"The controls won't work. Because," here England could hear Italy sniff again, "the plane is…a little bit on fire."

"The plane is _what?_" Romano gasped, making England miss whatever Italy said next.

"Italy, you need to bail out, get the canopy open and—" England was cut off by an earsplitting noise, half explosion, half static and feedback. He could almost imagine he heard a fading cry of "Pastaaaaaa!" before the radio fell silent.

England slowly set the microphone back on the table. "Well," he said, his own voice suddenly sounding very quiet after the cacophony of the last few seconds. "Romano, I—"

Romano whirled around and punched England in the face.

* * *

[A/N: ...The story's not done yet, don't be mad...Anyway, now I'm to the really fun bits, so it should update more frequently in future. I'll try to have another chapter by next week, but school's really busy and getting busier.]


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